* * *
baby girl
grown up now
again on her own
magnificent in her being
has become a tortured soul

some things don't seem fair
shouldn't have happened this way
are things as they should be?
that's what the wise ones say

watching your
sweet love child struggle
to make it through each day
such heart break to see a life
unfold this way

I hope and I pray
I hope and pray each and every day
she will choose this life
that she will choose to stay



Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.

little girl
your tiny breaths
contain the breath of life

as you doze
a whole universe inside of you
is expanding and bursting into life

I cannot shield you from
the joys and pains of life
but what I can be is a
stable and consistent
loving presence in your life

I will try to stay in the now
and not get all bent out of shape about
puttin' the fear of God in the boys and/or girls you date
for now, I will be a sane daddy that
holds you while you gently sleep

just remember when daddy gets a little crazy
I still love you

I will try to remember the same when
me and mommy stay up late at night waiting for you
hold you and soothe you as you cry out through the night
and even when you grow up and say "I hate you."
I will say "thank you. I love you."

but for now, I am glad you are just dozing in my arms
a tiny little being without a care in the world
daddy is here to change your poopy diapers
and rock you to sleep

Ink drops black, my soul infecting
Into water invading purity
Foreign substance contradicting
Clarity clouding, dark arching tentacles
Swirling about, twirling twisting
Depictions tempting
Hanging
In grotesque formation
Beautiful in their horror
Entrancing in their mingling

Each drop fresh transgression
My life’s cup growing darker
Liquid limbs of the ****** flailing
A dance of warning—that
I should become one of them if not
To filter disease of this breath

Faces
Fluid forming in inky swirl
Screaming, crying my name
Those here before me
Warning of my impending damnation
Singing anguish
Their tears impotent to cleanse
The stain that is my life

To undo that so long ago done
A power to remove the tint of my soul
Considered endlessly
If there be a time too late for
Men whose lives were spent foolishly
Their warning unheeded
Threat becoming promise pending
Hope’s defeat
A threat of doused despair

Favour despite nightmare’s creeping
An infant born
Filling cup further though
Not with night but with love
Salvation’s sacrifice
Understood, seen in the tiny smile
Of a child

Infant hands
gripping thumbs.
Tired arms encircling adult neck.
Your first smile,
first laugh—
first tooth, step, and word, our
first shared glance.
Moments, landmarks of your life, the
joy of my own.

Infant eyes so full
of wonder,
even the meagre astounds.
Constellations,
planets and moons, asteroids
creeping through space,
world destroyers and raisers of new.
The universe, its
infinitely vast magnificence, at
molecular level iris comprised.
The pupil—centre ajar
serving soul's route,
a window into 'nother realm, the
place of spirit's hailing.
True self temporarily encased,
the pathway to which
in resides of corporeal existence
the pith of life.
Your eyes—as much wonder possessed
as perceive.

A wish;
you might stay young forever, each
day spent together, that
your innocence,
your heart, may
never know break's suffering.
That cheek, tear might never dampness vandalize.
Your life—unspoiled joy,
mere childish disappointment to claim,
might always remain.

A shelter from hate,
from hunger and strife.
The broadcasts of the world
that their weighty burden might never
find home upon tiny shoulder.
In my palm, Atlas' strength I possess,
to keep at bay
war—its further result.
Disaster.
Death,
thunder wind lightning,
the monster under your bed.
The fear of all things fear inciting,
a paladin whom you I serve.

But in that wish
I might deprive,
an incalculable love—life's
blessed comprise.
The force by which
a patriarch's drive—
the reason for being.
By selfish pinning of youth,
fulfilment you may never know

As much to protect you,
I do myself.
A fear of my own finale.
Residing forever in this happy dream.
Terror realized,
contrary to that my inevitable absence—that
I might never leave you, but
that you might never leave me.
My son, I love you, and
in time you will see.

The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck's seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.

The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots

The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.

That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.

Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don't mind.

This stupid book has nothing to offer me
In eight pages on stiff paper board.
The pictures are saccharine,
A fat headed boy
In colorful clothes
Shows us what he can do.
How could I see the value
In knowing this simple stuff?
I’m too far removed from my point in time
When “jump” and “run” were just sounds,
When jumping and running were just what they are,
Far removed from the labels we gave them.

So it comes to this: this stupid book
Among all of God’s ink-sodden paper,
Is an achievement of gold,
the height of literature,
a swell in my throat,
When you brought it to me
just today, and said,
“dada”
“read”